Fanatics (4 page)

“As soon as she hears you’ll be with me she’ll object,” I said, turning on the gas under the wok.

Raphaella’s mother had never accepted me. She wanted Raphaella to lead a life without males in it. When Raphaella was a little girl her father had humiliated her mother by having affairs and eventually being charged with sexual exploitation of a woman in his firm. Mrs. Skye had learned to dislike and distrust men in general. But in my bumbling manner, without really knowing how I had done it, I had won Raphaella’s heart and ruined Mrs. Skye’s plans. She wasn’t grateful.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think she’s warming up to you. Give her a few years.”

“So you’ll help?”

“How could I turn you down?”

“You’re an angel,” I said with relief.

“But there’s one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You have to tell me what’s bothering you about the Corbizzi place.”

Raphaella’s ability to tune in to my feelings used to catch me by surprise, but not anymore. She had what her late grandmother had called “the gift,” although Raphaella sometimes complained it was more like a curse. She could sense things—emotions and even past happenings. I’d seen her walk into a building or a churchyard and
know
that something horrible had occurred there because she felt the presence of the people who had suffered. Raphaella once told me it was as if she was a string on a musical instrument and vibrated in sympathy with her surroundings. But her powers, her spiritualism, were a secret only she, her mother, and I knew.

“That library is creepy,” I replied. “I can’t put it into words. It’s more than the fact that the professor died there. It’s as if the room has … an attitude—a negative attitude. It doesn’t want strangers.”

Raphaella nodded as if everything I said made perfect sense to her. “I see. And that makes you uneasy—and a little scared.”

“Yeah.”

I poured a dollop of peanut oil into the wok and flipped on the range hood fan. “Hold your breath,” I warned. “This may make you cough a little.”

Raphaella got up and opened the window that looked out on Mom’s flower beds between the house and garage. I dumped the spices into the hot oil. Instantly, the sharp savoury aroma of sizzling chili, garlic, and ginger filled the kitchen. Coughing, I added the shrimp and tossed them with a metal spatula. As soon as the shrimp had turned pink
on both sides I scooped them onto a plate and set it aside. Next, in went the vegetables. I stir-fried them for a few minutes, then poured in some chicken broth, sending a cloud of steam into the air, and clapped the wooden lid on the wok.

While the veggies cooked, I drained the noodles. “Okay, here we go,” I announced. “The moment of truth.”

I removed the lid from the wok, dumped in the shrimp and then the noodles, blending the ingredients quickly, adding fish sauce at the last minute before turning off the stove. Raphaella scooped steamed rice into a bowl. While she set it on the table I poured the stir-fry onto a huge platter, then set it down next to the rice.

“Ready!” I yelled, pulling the strings of my apron.

Mom and Dad came into the kitchen, each with half a glass of red wine, Mom with the bottle. “Smells wonderful,” she commented.

Dad waved at the air, wrinkling his nose and pretending to be offended by the spicy aroma. “The fire extinguisher’s under the sink,” he remarked, grinning at Raphaella. Then he pulled out a chair. “Come on, Annie. No shilly-shallying. Let’s strap on the old feed bag.”

“Shilly-shallying?” Raphaella said.

As we ate, Raphaella told us about
MOO
. The cast had had its first run-though and the rehearsal schedule was set. Raphaella would be busy most nights. The dramatic and music directors were married—to each other.

“I hope the rehearsals won’t all be like our first meeting,” Raphaella said, popping a shrimp into her mouth. “The directors bickered over every point. And the guy playing Josh Smith thinks he knows more than both of them put together.
If by some miracle we can pull the production together and do a good job, there’s a chance we’ll be invited to perform at a conference opening at Geneva Park on the same weekend. And,” she added, giving my father her most winning smile, “the musical ensemble is short one flute player.”

Dad shook his head. “Don’t even try,” he said. “I can’t perform in front of people. My mouth gets all dry and I can’t pucker.”

“But you
teach
flute,” Raphaella argued. “Garnet says you’re a great player.”

Dad looked at me. “You said that?”

“I may have been exaggerating.”

Mom got into the mix. “No, you weren’t, Garnet. Gareth is a fabulous flautist,” she said to Raphaella.

Dad beamed and blushed at the same time. “Well—”

“But he’s chicken,” Mom said.

N
EXT MORNING
, I paced back and forth in my room, mentally rehearsing what I wanted to say. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to make the deal. A three-year lease at no cost! The biggest expenses in starting up a business, Dad had advised me more than once, were equipment and plant—the rental or ownership of the workplace. Mrs. Stoppini was offering the second for free, a huge boost to my plans.

But I didn’t want to sound too eager, because I had a condition of my own.

Okay, I told myself, it’s showtime. I keyed Mrs. Stoppini’s number into my cell, took a deep breath, and pushed the Talk button.

She answered with a coldly formal “Good morning. Corbizzi residence.”

“Hello, Mrs. Stoppini. It’s Garnet Havelock.”

Her voice warmed up a degree. “Good morning, Mr. Havelock. How nice to hear from you.”

“I said I’d phone and give you my decision about your offer.”

“Ah.”

“Er, I’m willing to meet your two conditions.”

A little more of the frost melted away. “Excellent.”

“But I have one of my own.”

A pause. “Indeed.”

I waited her out, chewing on my lip.

Her voice had iced over again, like a pond in winter. “May I know what you have in mind?”

“I have a friend. She’s very reliable. And honest. I want to bring her along from time to time to help with the books.”

“Mr. Havelock, I did stress that our business arrangements and all the attendant details, along with information personal to this household, must remain strictly confidential.”

“She’s very discreet. And I know from experience that she can keep a secret. Forever, if necessary.”

“But—”

“I need her help, Mrs. Stoppini.”

“Did you say
she
?”

“Raphaella is my girlfriend,” I said.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Stoppini said again, stuffing as much distaste as she could manage into the two syllables.

Girlfriend. I hated that word. It sounded trivial, as if Raphaella was a buddy I went to the movies with every Saturday afternoon. But how could I explain our relationship to a stranger? And why would I? Especially a cold fish like Mrs. Stoppini. Raphaella and I were soulmates.

“She’s my best friend,” I added.

Silence.

“My companion.”

More silence. Then, when Mrs. Stoppini spoke, her voice took on a neutral tone, as if she had made up her mind.

“Raphaella. An Italian name. It means ‘She who heals.’ I shall take that as a good omen. What is her surname?”

My turn to hesitate. “You’re going to investigate her.” It wasn’t a question.

“I must, Mr. Havelock. But I shall be just as circumspect as before.”

“Skye,” I said. “With an ‘e.’ ”

“Fine. Let us agree on the following: provided my lawyer has no objection, I shall consent to your condition and allow your … companion to assist you in your work and, to that end, come and go as she pleases.”

“Good. Thanks.”

“I shall have the contracts drawn up. And one more thing, Mr. Havelock.”

“Yes?”

“May I say how pleased I am that you have accepted.”

I almost shouted, “Me, too!”

W
HEN
I
WAS IN GRADE NINE
I went out with a girl named Sandy Mills until I found out I was her reserve boyfriend—the guy she dated as long as her real love interest hadn’t asked her out first. Sandy tore away the last shred of my already tattered self-confidence, and I wondered if any girl would ever give me the time of day. I was so desperate for ideas that one evening while my parents and I were washing the dinner dishes—we only used the dishwasher if we had company—I made the mistake of asking them how they met.

They agreed on the first part. Dad was an Orillia boy and Mom met him at the farmers’ market one summer Saturday while visiting friends who owned a cottage on Lake St. John and had brought her into town to shop. From that point on, my parents’ versions of their relationship story varied.

“She chased me all over town,” my father called out from the living room. He had finished washing and left Mom and me to sweep the floor and put the dishes away. “She wouldn’t let me alone. It was embarrassing. I’d turn a street corner and there she’d be. I married her just to put her out of her misery.”

“Not true!” Mom contradicted, directing her voice toward the living room as she swept. “You were so smitten you phoned me once a day and twice on Sunday. Your phone bill was bankrupting you. I only agreed to your proposal because I felt sorry for you.”

“Go on, admit it. I was irresistible. You were head over heels. Obsessed. Besotted.”

“You don’t even know what besotted means,” Mom scoffed, laughing, as Dad came back into the kitchen.

“Yes, I do,” he said, taking her in his arms, bending her backwards, and planting a noisy kiss on her mouth. “See?” he said to me over his shoulder. “She still can’t leave me alone.”

I threw down my dishtowel and left the kitchen. “No wonder I’m immature for my age,” I said.

Whatever my father claimed when he and Mom were horsing around, the grin on his beaming face in the wedding photo on the mantel told a different story. He couldn’t believe that the young woman holding his arm had agreed to have him.

They were different people—Mom was a journalist whose drive and ambition had made her well known, and had landed her in a few dangerous situations. She would go anywhere to chase down a story. Her favourite drink was adrenaline. Dad was a part-time music teacher—he played flute—and a store owner, and his calm familiar life in the town where he was born was adventurous enough for him. He was, in my mother’s words, an old-fashioned stick-in-the-mud, which was why he operated an antique store, preferred the golden oldies station on the radio, and drove a 1966 Chevy pickup truck he had restored himself. Mom had once had dreams that I would go off to university and be a scholar and hold a pen rather than a chisel or screwdriver, but Dad had quietly backed my wish to finish high school and learn cabinetry and furniture design.

But they were as tightly meshed as the strands in a suspension bridge cable, and they made all their big decisions together. Which is why I sat down with them in the living
room on the same day I talked to Mrs. Stoppini. I explained what I wanted to do and asked for their support.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be the
worst
investment in the world, eh, Annie?” Dad allowed, waggling his eyebrows.

Mom suggested that our family lawyer look over the contract before I signed it, and Dad offered an interest-free loan to get me up and running. We talked about my plans, and I noticed they kept exchanging smiles.

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

“Nothing,” my mother replied.

“We’re proud of you,” my father said. “She just won’t admit it.”

W
ITHIN A COUPLE OF WEEKS
the workshop was operational. I had installed a layout table, a drafting board, racks for my tools, and, along the walls, benches equipped with vises. The table, band, and radial arm saws and a power planer were situated on the floor with lots of working room around them. There was also a lathe, only three years old, that I had bought from Norbert for a song. I ordered the wood for the mantel, along with a supply of lumber and specialty woods I’d need to have on hand for occasional work. The vacuum-and-exhaust system would be installed in a day or so.

Meanwhile, I hung sheets over the library shelves, rolled up the rugs, and threw dropcloths over the furniture. I took down the ruined mantel and gingerly carried the pieces out to the shop. Then I power-sanded the burned patches on the library floor. The damage hadn’t gone deep, so the
sanding took only a couple of hours. It left slight indentations, but not enough to notice, especially if Mrs. Stoppini covered the area in front of the hearth with a new rug.

I spent some time in the paint-and-wallpaper store on Colborne Street discussing the available colours of wood stains with Rachel Pierce, an old high school friend, and comparing colour samples with the digital photo I had taken of the library floor. I left with paint for the wall above the fireplace, half a dozen small tins of stain, a can of urethane, and a few brushes. I figured I would mix the stain right in the library to get the colour match perfect.

When the floor and wall were done and dry, Mrs. Stoppini inspected the job from the hallway outside the library door and pronounced my work “most satisfactory.” I concluded that she was pleased, and that those two words were the highest praise I was going to get.

Because soft surfaces absorb smoke much more than wood or leather, the curtains and rugs stank of stale carbon and ash. No one else was permitted in the library except me and Raphaella, so with the work on the floor done, Mrs. Stoppini had me pull down the drapes, remove the rugs, and haul everything to the front door, where a company she had engaged would pick it all up and take it away to be cleaned. I then washed the windows and set about dusting the bookshelves.

All this going to and fro, into and out of the library—careful to follow Mrs. Stoppini’s strict instructions and close the doors firmly each time I entered or left—didn’t alter my reaction to a room that should have felt homey and inviting. After all, there were the books, the worn, comfortable chairs, the warmth of natural wood and of wool rugs—all
bathed by the light streaming in through the big windows. What more was needed to help me relax?